Part 4 (2/2)

CHAPTER III.

By the time Pepita had reached home her mood had changed--her anger was gone, or at least the signs of it were. She sang as she prepared the supper, and chatted gayly with Jose. It appeared that, after all, she had enjoyed the bull-fight; it had even been better than the others; she had had great pleasure. She made delightful little jests about everything; she recounted the names of the people she had seen and known; she described to him the dresses of the girls, the airs and graces of the men. She laughed, and obliged Jose to laugh also, and all the time she looked so pretty, with the queer light in her eyes, the gleam of her little wicked white teeth, and the brilliant spot of color on her cheeks, that she was enough to turn one's head.

The moon was at its brightest that night. All the earth was bathed in pure, magic whiteness--the whiteness which somehow seems to bring perfume and stillness and mysterious tenderness with it. Such a night!

One breathed roses and orange blossoms and jasmine. Pepita sat under the roses and sang and talked, and Jose smoked and was happy, but still in a state of bewilderment, though the stillness and beauty of the night soothed him and made him content to ruminate without words.

Jovita fell asleep. She always fell asleep out-of-doors on the warm summer nights, and in-doors by the fire when it was winter. Pepita ceased to talk, and sang one little song after another; then she even ceased to sing, and only touched her guitar softly now and then. After a while Jose, who had stretched himself upon a bench, fell asleep also.

Pepita ceased to touch her guitar. She looked out at the flowers sleeping in the moonlight, and for a few minutes was very still; then she laid the guitar down and stepped out into the brightness.

In the light of the moon one cannot see the color in a face. Perhaps this was why hers seemed to be gone. She looked quite pale, and her lovely little brows were drawn together until they made a black line across her forehead. She clasped her hands behind her head, and with her face a little thrown back, so that the light fell full upon it, wandered out among the trees and fragrant flowering things. She liked the jasmine best, and over one part of the low, rough wall there climbed one which blossomed with a myriad stars. So she went and stood by it, and looked now at it, now up and down the road, which the moon had made into a path of snow.

And as she stood there, suddenly there started up on the other side of the wall the figure she knew so well, and the next moment it had vaulted over and was close to her. Sebastiano!

She stood still, her hands still clasped behind her head, her face still upturned, and looked at him.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Her hands still clasped behind her head 107]

He folded his arms and looked at her. As for him, whether the moonlight was to blame or not, he was as pale as death.

”Yes,” he said, ”you are always the same. You do not change. One may come at any hour. But listen to me. You think I have come to reproach you. Why should I? I have fought bulls, but that does not teach men how to deal with women. I thought that, if a man gave you his soul and his life and the breath of his body, you would listen some day and let him think of you. You are a woman, and you are made to be loved; but there is something hard in your heart. You are proud of having mocked a man who was honest and loved you. But hear me: it is better, after all, to be less pretty and more a woman.”

He stopped an instant. She had changed her position, and stood by the jasmine, stripping the blossoms from it one by one. She began to smile and sing softly, as if to herself:

”Oh, bird at my window, Sing but one song to me, My lover who is light and gay.”

”And more a woman,” said Sebastiano. ”It is women men want.”

Pepita looked up and laughed; then she sang again:

”Who stirs the blossoms in the night, Who breaks the orange flower.”

Sebastiano made a swift movement and caught her wrists, his eyes flas.h.i.+ng fire.

”That is nothing,” he said. ”You are woman enough. The time will come.

It will not be always like this. You can be _made_ to love. Yes, you are one of those who must be _made_. Then you will suffer too, and it will be good for you. You will speak then.”

He paused a moment, and held her arms a little apart, looking at her with a sudden change to mournfulness.

”How pretty you are!” he said. ”How little and how pretty! If you were good and gentle, and one might touch your cheek softly or stroke your hair, how one would love and serve you! No, you cannot move. I have not fought bulls for nothing. If I let you move you will struggle and hurt yourself. Listen. I am going away. I will trouble you no more now. I will wait. If one waits long enough, pain ceases and one forgets. It is so with a wound, why not with what one feels for a woman? I said you could be _made_ to love; but let that be left for another man to do. I want no love like that. I want a woman. Some day you will not cast the _devisa_ under your feet. You will take it and hide it in your breast.

It will not be mine, but some other man's who loves you less. I loved you, I was mad for you; but it shall cease. It is better to think only of the bulls than to play the fool for a woman who has no love in her heart. You are pretty, but that is not everything. You can work spells, but a man can break through them. There! Go!”

He gave her one long look, flung her hands aside, and had vaulted the wall and was gone himself one moment later.

Pepita stood still with clinched hands dropped at her side, staring with wide fierce eyes down the white moonlit road.

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